Sunday survived, but only for a while - inside

my girlie’s twisted fix - inside

her crooked smile.

Her wicker basket in her hand, and

all my poems inside. The little girlie’s going home,

except she’ll need a ride.

She got drunk at the carnival and then at the fair.

Two men with one slit throat and salamander charms,

they kissed her with foreskin

and her wicker basket,

a wasted fiasco,

no bondage to break from,

no condom to mask it.

A dog collar dog tag, disposable plans,

my girlie’s got curly hair draped in her hands.

The scissors fell first and the basket fell second,

minutes of sitting,

the lone wicker basket,

burning with love notes,

infatuated, fetch it,

the dull words that I spoke,

a razor, a racket.

My girl’s got a dead rot, mahogany blue,

unglued and forgotten,

shamed through the rue.

The weight of my heart

on the butcher’s scale, stolen.

She asked if I had a smoke,

asked, am I holding.

A broken bread basket, poems

are for kids.

A tisket, a tasket,

my heart’s taking bids.

"..like.."

great to have you back around....

Welcome back..... & Nice write....

Yes! I have missed you!

plastic_pancakes....

great visuals....

teasingbrunette

What images and it has a nice ring to it. You know I'm one of your biggest fans. :)